Read Online Alice Close Your Eyes by Averil Dean - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Averil Dean
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“Jesus.”
I reach for another olive. He reaches, too, then waits for me to choose first.
“I had a friend in foster care,” he says. “He said the foster families always had some dark reason for wanting him around. To work in the family business, or watch the younger kids. Once he ended up in the hospital with a couple of broken ribs.”
“Did you think there was some altruism involved?”
“Well, no, but—”
“The foster system is completely fucked. Any kid who falls into it is fucked. There’s no fine motive, no one gives a shit. The kid is the state’s responsibility until he’s eighteen. It’s nothing more than that.”
He doesn’t look at me. “My friend said he was glad he wasn’t a girl. He—”
“You know, one of the first things I learned as a writer is the value of negative space. Some stories don’t work when you jam them with facts.”
“You think we won’t work if you fill in the blanks?”
“I don’t know. But if you really want to find out, you can start by filling in some of your own. This falling-out with your parents. What was that about?”
He builds a sandwich with a cracker, a slice of salami, cheddar, then another cracker. He eats the whole thing in one bite. Swallows, wipes his mouth.
“Did your dad want you to go into the liquor business or something?”
“No.”
“Your mother wanted you to marry her best friend’s daughter.”
He smiles. “No. Nothing like that.”
I peel the paper from a disc of sausage, wondering whether he’ll tell me the truth.
“I got into some trouble,” he says. “Spent eighteen months in prison.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Really.”
“When I got out, I went to see my parents. My old man had a fat check already written. Told me to take it and never come back. Said I had broken my mother’s heart.”
“Wow.”
He shrugs. “There are worse things in life. Think if he’d been a poor man.”
“So this is why you’re not working as an architect?”
“Yeah. No firm’s going to take me on with a prison record.”
“But you could work independently—”
“Yes, I could. And I will. Let’s say I’m trying to get my bearings first.”
We eat in silence for a few minutes. The children have quieted, as well. They are bundled into towels and gathered in a semicircle around a young blonde woman and a man I guess to be her husband.
“Shocked?” Jack says.
“No.”
“Concerned?”
I look at him. “Should I be?”
He doesn’t answer right away. When he finally speaks, his voice seems different and his eyes are fixed on the family below.
“Probably.”
“So what was prison like?”
“Loud. Crowded. Pretty fucking scary, if you want to know the truth.”
“Because of the other inmates?”
“Yeah, that. And also just the concept of being trapped in a room with no way out. I used to have nightmares about the prison being on fire and all of us left in there to burn.”
“A therapist would have a field day with that.”
I pop a tomato into my mouth and burst it with my tongue. The warm juice gushes over my tongue and trickles down my throat.
“Aren’t you going to ask what I did?” he says.
“I don’t need to ask. I can look it up online.”
“Yeah, I guess you can.”
I wet a napkin and wipe my hands. “But brownie points if you want to save me the trouble.”
He digs out his pocketknife and begins to peel an apple. The blade slides like a scalpel under the skin, around and around without stopping, until he holds the flayed apple in his hand and the whole peel dangling from the tip of his knife.
“Sexual battery,” he says. He hands me a slice of apple. “Now let’s talk about those brownie points.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“She deserved it, I suppose,” I say.
He tosses the apple peel to a couple of chipmunks who are squabbling over an empty peanut shell.
“Oh, she deserved it, but just to be clear, I didn’t rape her.”
“You were convicted, though.”
“I pled out.”
“I
I reach for another olive. He reaches, too, then waits for me to choose first.
“I had a friend in foster care,” he says. “He said the foster families always had some dark reason for wanting him around. To work in the family business, or watch the younger kids. Once he ended up in the hospital with a couple of broken ribs.”
“Did you think there was some altruism involved?”
“Well, no, but—”
“The foster system is completely fucked. Any kid who falls into it is fucked. There’s no fine motive, no one gives a shit. The kid is the state’s responsibility until he’s eighteen. It’s nothing more than that.”
He doesn’t look at me. “My friend said he was glad he wasn’t a girl. He—”
“You know, one of the first things I learned as a writer is the value of negative space. Some stories don’t work when you jam them with facts.”
“You think we won’t work if you fill in the blanks?”
“I don’t know. But if you really want to find out, you can start by filling in some of your own. This falling-out with your parents. What was that about?”
He builds a sandwich with a cracker, a slice of salami, cheddar, then another cracker. He eats the whole thing in one bite. Swallows, wipes his mouth.
“Did your dad want you to go into the liquor business or something?”
“No.”
“Your mother wanted you to marry her best friend’s daughter.”
He smiles. “No. Nothing like that.”
I peel the paper from a disc of sausage, wondering whether he’ll tell me the truth.
“I got into some trouble,” he says. “Spent eighteen months in prison.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Really.”
“When I got out, I went to see my parents. My old man had a fat check already written. Told me to take it and never come back. Said I had broken my mother’s heart.”
“Wow.”
He shrugs. “There are worse things in life. Think if he’d been a poor man.”
“So this is why you’re not working as an architect?”
“Yeah. No firm’s going to take me on with a prison record.”
“But you could work independently—”
“Yes, I could. And I will. Let’s say I’m trying to get my bearings first.”
We eat in silence for a few minutes. The children have quieted, as well. They are bundled into towels and gathered in a semicircle around a young blonde woman and a man I guess to be her husband.
“Shocked?” Jack says.
“No.”
“Concerned?”
I look at him. “Should I be?”
He doesn’t answer right away. When he finally speaks, his voice seems different and his eyes are fixed on the family below.
“Probably.”
“So what was prison like?”
“Loud. Crowded. Pretty fucking scary, if you want to know the truth.”
“Because of the other inmates?”
“Yeah, that. And also just the concept of being trapped in a room with no way out. I used to have nightmares about the prison being on fire and all of us left in there to burn.”
“A therapist would have a field day with that.”
I pop a tomato into my mouth and burst it with my tongue. The warm juice gushes over my tongue and trickles down my throat.
“Aren’t you going to ask what I did?” he says.
“I don’t need to ask. I can look it up online.”
“Yeah, I guess you can.”
I wet a napkin and wipe my hands. “But brownie points if you want to save me the trouble.”
He digs out his pocketknife and begins to peel an apple. The blade slides like a scalpel under the skin, around and around without stopping, until he holds the flayed apple in his hand and the whole peel dangling from the tip of his knife.
“Sexual battery,” he says. He hands me a slice of apple. “Now let’s talk about those brownie points.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“She deserved it, I suppose,” I say.
He tosses the apple peel to a couple of chipmunks who are squabbling over an empty peanut shell.
“Oh, she deserved it, but just to be clear, I didn’t rape her.”
“You were convicted, though.”
“I pled out.”
“I
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